She is the color of dusk,
Just before it begins to rain.
A shade of orange
From the setting sun,
A pinch of yellow,
From the street lamps,
A sprinkle of red,
From the shady clouds.
There is a name for that color,
It’s called beautiful.
She is the sound of a butterfly flying,
A wonder you would have to see to believe,
to hear, to feel.
Her swaying lips leave a hurricane
raging half way across my soul.
Running through parts of me
There is a metaphor I know for this,
It’s just called insanity.
She is the aroma of rain on a desert rock.
The smell of earth with enough traces of sandalwood for the bees,
Mixed with the pocket of air from spring’s first bloom.
I close my eyes and inhale like a diver taking his last breath,
Knowing this intoxication would only drown me a little deeper.
The mortals have a term for this scent,
It’s called the incense of the Gods.
Have you ever felt the mildest of the winds that kisses the back of your neck?
When the love of your life walks right past behind you?
When the skin behind your knees erupt with goosebumps?
When for a second your brain stammers and your whole body sits still like a hand drawn portrait?
I am yet to find word for this the most simple of analogies,
I’m sure none of the languages have one.
There is this only curve I fall for,
Is the one on her lip, the first time,
to this day, every time
She says my name.
So there was that day,
Wow a day when she was born
A perfect day indeed
I looked into your eyes
And you looked into mine
With words that can breakdown and cry
I asked “My love, would you be mine..FOREVER?”